


il cuore non sbaglia mai

by SeeCee



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Blood As Lube, Dark, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Knifeplay, M/M, Mentions of Terrorism, Modern Setting, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8177456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeCee/pseuds/SeeCee
Summary: There are things Peter has done that can't be fixed. But he can still try.
 
MI6!Agent/International!Criminal Pedmund!





	

Carefully, he steps over rubble and the occasional corpse. There are only a couple of cars not bombed out. Their useless signal lights, combined with the smoke permeating from all over the place, make it hard to calculate the damage properly. It's the middle of the damn day, and apart from that one warehouse it's an empty field with strewn about crates. He can't see shit. But he doesn't need to, it's clear that there are no survivors.

Fuck. He had warned them that this would be suicide. But why would they listen to him? It's not the first time. Showing up in his pristine, tailored suit, holding his badge up only long enough for it to be recognized, certainly not to be inspected, certainly not to be touched. Authoritatively, stating that he wants their assistance but not interference. It's not unusual for them to become hostile, defensive. They're the executive, the law enforcers, in this town. They've always dealt with their criminals themselves. Sure, this case took longer, was a bit out of the parameters of what the statistics would call normal but that sure as shit didn't mean they needed a fucking Interpol Agent to tell them how to do their job. Never mind, that he was only posing as one. MI6 would hardly work voluntarily with these people.

It didn't matter to them how adamantly he had tried to make clear that this wasn't the usual petty theft and collateral murder that this was much more dangerous. Maybe if he had been allowed to show the deputy the evidence, the trail that led his department to this remote little American town in the first place. But it wasn't in their jurisdiction, they weren't important enough, ranked high enough, to even be granted a glance. That might have been all it took, hurt pride enough reason to dismiss his order and get themselves all killed.

And he used to be so good at making people feel important and wanting to work for him.

 

He came too late, by the time he arrived the last shots were already being exchanged. Then, eerie silence. He waited five more minutes, observing the smoke for moving silhouettes, before getting out.

 

He makes his way over to the warehouse slowly, ears strained for any blood gurgling, for any twitching. There is nothing and the hideout is burning, he'll be lucky if there'll be any scraps left for him to continue the trail.

Regardless, he traipses on, his gun cocked next to his leg, finger steady on the trigger.

All of a sudden, his leg is blown away under him, impact forcing him on his knees. Pain starts to blossom instantly. It's coming from his left thigh. Chocking out a gasp, he lets one hand inspect the wound, not daring to take his eyes off of his surroundings. The bullet went right through without hitting the bone. However, his femoral artery is clipped, he has maybe ten, fifteen minutes before the blood loss will cause him to faint. He should try to get to a vehicle, contact emergency but he knows, too, that this shot was not aimed to kill.

Then a figure steps forward. All dressed in black, even the motorcycle helmet is tinted, the sniper rifle dangles idly from a shoulder. Peter turns off the safety and aims. Unfazed, the unknown perpetrator comes closer, throwing the rifle to the side and, right before he reaches Peter, discards the helmet, too.

Peter's eyes go wide.

"Long time no see, brother mine." He is greeted with a smile too feral to be called human.

"Edmund."

He advances right up to him, his crotch centimetres from Peter's face, who still looks up at him. Edmund unbuckles, unbuttons, zips the fly.

"Suck." He commands and Peter is faced with his brother's half hard dick bumping against his lips. For a moment he forgets the pain in his leg, the blood still gushing through the fingers of his hand, that meekly try to stem it. If this is his atonement then there is no question of struggle, protest, and least of all refusal.

So he opens his mouth, just that much that his tongue can lick at the tip but the instant he relents Edmund claws a hand in the back of his head and forces him to open up wide and take it all. It feels strange, tastes unfamiliar. Peter hasn't done this in forever. But that's not to say he didn't miss it. Never mind the circumstances. The tip hits the back of his throat and he tries to mask the gagging with a moan. His tongue puts pressure on the underside, while he works his cheeks to really suck him in and it seems to work. Edmund's hand loosens a bit, giving some control back to Peter, who uses it to work his lips from the shaft up to the tip. He considers taking his hand to grab the base of Edmund's dick and looks up to see if he will let him, give up even more control. But Edmund's face doesn't show any emotion. He looks down at him with patience, maybe a hint of amusement. Next thing Peter knows the grip in his hair tightens and Edmund slams in to the hilt.

This time Peter doesn't stop the sounds or tries to overrule his body enough to prevent the tears from pricking at his eyes. Edmund doesn't waste a thought on finesse and fucks his face relentlessly. His grunts drown out the pitiful whimpers Peter can't suppress. He feels dizzy, too. But that's no wonder, unable to breathe as he is. His hands support himself on Edmund's thighs and it's only when he tries to shift his weight from one knee to the other that he remembers. By the time he realizes how blurry his vision already is, Edmund comes and Peter swallows what he can. He feels unbalanced, so he tries to hold onto Edmund. But he won't let him, extricates himself from Peter's weak grip mercilessly. Then Peter's on the ground. The rough gravel on his cheek, the horizontal position momentarily stabilize his senses.

Ten feet away is the deputy slumped against a car and holding his side. There's blood all over him, too. But his face is white, as white as his eyes staring directly into Peter's. Man, he's glad he won't have to explain this later.

Meanwhile, Edmund must have knelt down because a light touch lands on his neck.

"Found you... " Peter croaks. "Finally... found you."

The last thing he feels is the light twitch of fingertips before the darkness, mercifully, claims him.

 

 

 

 

“Not a vegetable then. That's a relief.”

Peter tries to open his eyes but his lids and brain do their damnedest to hold him under. Everything is blurry and his throat is awfully dry. He tries to speak but his vocal chords won't cooperate.

"Here, " Lucy says and pushes a straw to his lips. Between the few sips that he manages his little sister finally comes into focus. There are bags under her eyes, her hair looks unwashed.

"I suspect your superior has been informed as soon as you began to stir, he'll probably be here soon. So, I'll just tell you what I know."

Gratefully, he smiles at her.

"You've been out for a little over two weeks. They wouldn't tell me the cause for the state of your leg but I can tell it's a bullet wound. You had lost a lot of blood but they flew you over as soon as you were somewhat stable. Then your leg got infected. Really, really badly. They were this close to having to amputate it. But your body finally responded to the antibiotics and here we are."

Now Peter really wants to have a look at his leg but there's no way he'd ask Lucy to show it to him. He rasps a couple times and Lucy holds the cup to him again. He takes another sip.

"Parents?" He croaks. "Our parents?" Followed by a cough.

Lucy gives him a hard look.

"As protocol says I wasn't allowed to tell them. They have no idea you're here."

He wants to ask about Susan, too, but already knows that answer.

"Susan won't be able to make it." Lucy fills in regardless. It's supposed to sting him.

"Lu, listen- "

"No, Peter. It's okay. You chose this life and you chose us as your emergency contacts, to do nothing but sit here every couple months wondering if this is finally it."

He swallows hard, wants to say more but he's saved by a knock on his door. A nurse peeks inside.

"I'm sorry Miss Pevensie but visiting hours are over."

"I'm as good as gone." She replies and the nurse disappears. Lucy gets up, collects her jacket.

"'Visiting hours are over.'" She scoffs. "More like your boss is here and doesn't feel like dealing with family members."

Peter wishes he could do something to have her leave in a better mood but he doesn't know a thing to say. She closes the last button on her coat, her hand already reaches for the door handle.

"I saw him." He rasps. "Edmund."

Lucy stills, then grips the doorknob and her knuckles turn white.

"He's been dead a long time."

She leaves without saying goodbye.

 

Scarcely a minute later Frank Becket enters. Instinctively, Peter tries to sit up straighter. Alas, his weak body won't allow him.

The Marshall foregoes the vacant chair and instead positions himself directly at the foot of his bed, a chart between his hands.

"It's good to have you back, Pevensie."

"Sir." He nods.

"Well, I won't beat abound the bush, you left us quite the shit show over there."

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"There's something to be sorry about, then?"

Trying to limit any further indictment Peter stays quiet. Becket sees through that and grants him a small smile.

"As an MI6 Agent there isn't really a script, code or protocol to follow and in your almost three years of being a full fledged one I hadn't had once the need to reprimand you so I suggest you let me go through the report before giving yourself up."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good."

Now Becket moves towards the chair but pulls it further away before settling down.

"The police report I've got here ,which was, by the way, written by the last remaining local policeman," He mentions with a raised brow. "Says that the police squad dispatched without notifying you first and having thus neither permission nor clearance."

"That is correct, Sir. I arrived to talk about the next proceedings with the Sheriff when I was told they had left the station thirty minutes earlier."

"And you followed them without leaving any orders for the remaining officer or without trying to get a hold of the Sheriff by phone or radio?"

Peter takes a concealing little cough.

"As the Sheriff and I had not exactly seen eye to eye the entire time of my stay, I had calculated that it was my best option to try and catch up with them before the situation could escalate."

Becket stares at him for a moment.

"We need to go over your working relation with that sheriff more detailed later," He says then and scribbles something in the margins. Peter would like to know why but isn't impertinent enough to ask.

"So. You get to that- " He thumbs through the notes. "Seemingly abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere about forty minutes later. What was going down?"

"There had obviously been a shoot out. By the time I got there the farmhouse, as well as a couple of cars stood in flames. I stayed in my vehicle from where I could see a number of corpses. I was waiting for any further sounds or movement. After five minutes I determined that no one else was coming or leaving so I got out to salvage what I could."

"You didn't call for backup or notified anyone in the mean time?"

"I'm afraid my mind was preoccupied with hoping that I would still find enough evidence left to continue my trail."

Again Becket scribbles something down. "I see."

Peter takes the moment to reach for his water. When Becket looks back up, he continues.

"Before I could reach the building I was shot in the left upper thigh with a sniper rifle and went down."

"Did you see the shooter?"

"Yes." Peter says and Becket makes a note. "He approached me."

Mid-scribble he looks up.

"The shooter approached you?"

"Yes."

"Could you identify him?"

Wrecked by a little coughing attack Peter shakes his head.

"He was clad head to toe in black motorcycle gear. Including helmet and gloves."

Becket continues to stare at him.

"Shoe size would be about seven, I'd guess."

But he makes no note of that.   
"What did he do? Didn't he say anything?"

"No, he just... stopped in front of me."

"Why didn't you shoot him down?"

"He still had the sniper rifle locked on me. I didn't dare."

Bewildered, Becket leans back in his seat.

"You're honest to God telling me that criminal did nothing else but stay there and look at you?"

"Yes, until, eventually, I fell unconscious."  
Becket looks at him for another moment before rifling through papers again.

"Your medical examination doesn't list any other injuries. Meaning he didn't bat you over the head or did anything else to send you into a coma? He just patiently stood there for what, fifteen minutes? Until you slowly fainted from blood loss?"

"He had to walk over to me first. That took a couple of minutes."

Becket considers him disbelieving. Like a punch to the gut Peter remembers the Sheriff.

"What- "His voice croaks and he rasps. "What about the Sheriff? I remember him laying there, too. He was still alive, wasn't he?"

At this the Marshall's posture becomes a bit more rigid.

"He's dead."

On the inside Peter heaves a huge sigh of relief. Regardless, he doesn't show any outwardly reaction because Becket seems to observe him very closely for just that.

"I saw that he was bleeding but I thought... It seemed fine, better than my leg for sure."

"It wasn't the abdominal injury that killed him, he was shot in the head." Becket says. "With your weapon."

Peter's eyes widen but he doesn't know what to say.

"Wasn't you then?"

"No, I- Of course not, Sir."

"Yeah. I didn't think so." He sighs and shuts the folder. "Now, there's one last thing."

Wary, Peter squares his shoulders.

"There had been fresh semen found on your hair and in your mouth." He states and looks just that bit uncomfortable. "Care to explain why?"

Peter feels his ears grow hot but hopes to Aslan he isn't actually blushing in front of his superior.

"It was... a private matter. Just before I drove over to the Sheriff's department I- "

"All right," Becket holds up his hand. "That's- I really don't need to know any details." He says and gets up. "Regardless, I do have to empathize that we expect our Agents to fully concentrate on the Job while they're out in the field."

"It won't happen again, Sir."

Becket harrumphs and turns back around to him.

"You're allocated another month for recovery, so I will see you then."

"Thank you, Sir."

When Becket reaches the door he suddenly stills.

"The sniper couldn't have been your... romantic involvement, could he?"

He looks back to Peter.

"Just- He's watching you bleed out on the ground and shoots the only other man, who saw you two together in the head. Almost sounds like a vengeful lover, doesn't it?"

But Peter doesn't answer him and Becket doesn't seem to expect him to anyway. He just shakes his head and leaves without another word.

 

Back in solitude, Peter melts into the pillows.

"Edmund." He mumbles, eyes closing. "Edmund."

 

In his dream he's surrounded by his family members. They're all pulling at his elbows or hands or shoulders, trying to catch his attention but Peter winds in their grip. There's someone else he needs to find. Peter calls out a name but there's no one answering. The other's won't let go of him and he can't make them understand that he can't be there for them now, that he needs to talk to Edmund before it's too late. But they won't budge and Edmund is lost.

 

The next day his parents come. As usual his mum fusses relentlessly, fluffing up pillows, reorganizing the few things in the wardrobe and offering him all kinds of food and beverages. His Dad at least stays seated, he's read Peter from the papers and consults him now for the crossword puzzle. He seems more relaxed than his mother but it's just a front. The familiarity between them had shifted into awkwardness a long time ago. They missed the part where he grew up and when they saw each other again he had been more of an adult than either of them. Their dynamic had been off ever since.

When he had come back... Well, they all know what happened but thing is he never made an effort to let his parents get to know him again, to reconcile them with the firstborn son they had raised. That was the difference between him and his siblings. He had no use for his parents anymore and especially Lucy holds that against him. She's always had an overblown sense of loyalty. Susan once said she's keeping us together like glue.

"Or resin." Edmund had retorted.

Peter believes he was right, because she doesn't let go and it takes a great deal of pain for everyone to get her out. But like his unacknowledged estrangement with his parents or Susan's blatant disdain, he had years to get used to Lucy's terse mouth and quiet disapproval.

He had tried to do it right, to  _be_ right, at one point anyway. After he had been wrong, after he had done all these many terrible things, he tried to go back, to make amends. And they had all been so hopeful and approving, enthusiastic in their support. But he couldn't keep it up and then they lost Ed and maybe that's why they are so bitter in their resentment, because he disappointed them a second time and without a second thought.

 

"You know, I've long had an inkling that you really don't mind pain all that much."

His physiotherapist says, kneading the very sensitive skin around the bullet wound.

"Looks like I was right." He grins past Peter's tented erection and challengingly into his eyes. Alex had been his attending therapist for the last couple of times already. He has dark hair and brown eyes and that's where the similarities end. His hand works its way up from the inside of his thigh to brush against his cock and balls. Peter breathes in sharply but lets him.

 

His recovery goes speedy and well, his body as eager as his mind to go back to work. His parents visit him every other day and are even there to drive him home on his discharge day. He doesn't invite them in. Lucy came back two more times but the conversation was short and superficial. There was no mention of Susan.

 

 

 

 

Back at the job he's confined to research and paperwork duties. He grumbles only mildly. It might as well be that way, they don't mean to overexert him and he is fine sitting on his ass if that means he'll be the first to know of any case that could be linked to Edmund.

Six months go by before one of their tracked ID's beeps at Charles De Gaulle and Peter catches sight of a familiar head of hair on the security cameras. He's in Paris four hours later.

 

There's an enormous auction going off in the French Christie's. Monet, Vermeer and a couple of Klimt's are making the rounds. If there is any reason why Edmund should have come to Paris it is this.

His file, the unofficial one, the one Peter carried together, lists a variety of passports and offences, including forgery, art and identity theft, arson, drug dealings, smuggling and looks like murder is on the list now as well.

He's been accumulating this data almost since his first day at the office. Ever since they interviewed him and asked him about his family situation. Monitoring his reaction when they brought up his dead baby brother. Complete with photo of that mangled, water destroyed corpse that Susan and him had to drive up to Scotland to identify.

Lucy and their parents had sat in the waiting room, adamant that they wanted to come along. But when they arrived their nerves had left them. So, they send in their eldest children, hoping and fearing that they would not be able to recognize their own brother.

It wasn't Edmund. Peter knew immediately. Even despite the pale, washed up body and half eaten face he had not a single doubt. He knew that body better than his own and for the first time he was glad of that fact.

Susan, who hadn't said a single word all day, began to sob.

"That's him."

Compassionately, the coroner excused himself to give them a moment. Probably just wanting to get the paperwork ready.

As soon as they were left alone Susan composed herself again, dabbing her face with an embroidered handkerchief.

"I know that this is your fault," She had said. "He wanted to talk to me. He wanted to tell me something that day. But we were all so busy celebrating your acceptance into the academy. You did this."

"Susan," Peter spoke up then, calming. "This isn't- "

"Mum and Dad haven't slept properly in almost a year. Lucy is... I don't even remember the last time I saw her smile," She said warningly. "If you can't fix this then we can at least give them this."

So it had been decided.

Susan talked to their family while Peter stood in the coroner's office, filling out the forms, watching their parents succumb to their fulfilled fear but also seeing the tension seep out of their shoulders. It was finally over. Nobody else claimed the body and a week later they buried him next to their grandparents.

 

"I didn't think they'd let someone from MI6 in here," Edmund says, casually leaning his elbows on the counter next to Peter, motioning the waiter for a drink. "You know, not to scare half the clientèle away."

"Today I'm Todd Hannigan, an art enthusiast like anybody else in the room."

He takes a sip from his own wine and doesn't need to turn around to see the amused grin on his brother's face.

"And what, pray tell, have you locked your eyes on?"

“ _Hope, II_.”

Edmund snorts.

"How very sentimental of you."

He downs the drink in one go, apparently losing interest and making to leave again.

"Edmund." Peter finally turns around but Edmund doesn't stop walking away. When Peter looks down on the overturned glass on the counter he sees a number sequence scrawled on the napkin. He stuffs it into his pocket.

 

It takes him a moment to find the right hotel. It's a big, boisterous one, not exactly subtle. The answer to his knock is a crisp "Come in."

Walking through the narrow hall, into an entrée room, Peter takes a moment to take everything in. There are no documents or even clothes lying around. To the left the bathroom door opens.

"Took you long enough," Edmund remarks absent-mindedly, typing away on his phone and crossing the room without acknowledging Peter any further.

"I had expected something... less grand."

Edmund begins mixing himself a drink and doesn't offer one to Peter.

"Might as well travel in style. It's not like my lodgements will matter much when you and your little flock of cops will arrest me." He takes a sip and makes a pleased noise.

"So, you know why I'm here then."

Drink in hand Edmund crosses the room once more towards the double doors leading to the bedroom. He throws Peter a playful smirk.

"Of course I do."

He deposits the clinking glass on a drawer and chucks out of his jacket, leaving him in one less layer of his three-piece suit. He looks immaculate and incredibly fit. Peter's eyes drift to his ass. Compared to him Peter feels weirdly inadequate in his white collar suit. He's pretty sure not even the tie lies even.

Then Edmund takes the drink back up, sits down on the edge of the bed and knocks it back.

"Shall we?" He asks and lets his legs fall open. Looking expectantly at Peter as if he was no more than a street hooker he called up here to service him for twenty measly bucks.

The worst part about that is how much Peter wants to oblige. It's unbelievably hard to keep walking until he can lean against the door frame instead of falling right to his knees. What did he come here for again?

"Ed," He says and notices very well how the muscles around his eyes and mouth harden at the sound of his familial nickname. "Come home."

His eyes become unfocused and his body relaxes despite Peter's expectation of seeing him coil together like a viper before it snaps.

"To Susan and Lucy?" He wonders, the hint of a fondness showing in his expression. "To see Mum and Dad again?"

" _Yes,_ " Peter presses and comes closer, still fighting the urge to grovel. "Let's go home," He persists. "Let's go home together."

That lets Edmund snap back into cold reality, looking like any unfamiliar young man and purposefully, he gets up. Except that he doesn't meet Peter's eyes and instead seemingly means to strut past his older brother.

"Ed." Peter grabs him by the wrist and Edmund stills. He turns slowly around, looking for all the world like a chided child, his free hand fists in Peter's shirt, right over his hipbone.

"I don't even know what home is any more."

"Then let me show you," Peter insists and cups, in a brazen act, his face, prompting Edmund to meet his gaze. "Let me take you there."

And again Edmund transforms in front of his eyes. The childlike expression making way for a dangerous smile. It would be seductive to anyone else but to Peter these teeth only spell out: Run. Not that he could.

Edmund disengages his wrist from Peter's grip and moves it up to his collar, divesting Peter off his tie and jacket, crowding him back towards the bed.

At least by the time Edmund unbuttons his shirt and his calves hit the bed frame is it impossible to mistake the situation for anything else but what it is. And Peter knows he should probably stop him. But how could he after what happened all these years ago? So, he lets himself be pushed down on his back and lets himself be straddled and lets Edmund roam the skin on his stomach with his fingernails. Always keeping in mind that these are claws meant to tear through flesh. The least he can do is lay still and not use his hands for the things he actually wants.

 

Suddenly, there's vibration. With an annoyed cluck Edmund slips his phone out of his pocket and reads the new text message. Swiftly, he types back but in the meantime he swings a leg over Peter and gets up off the bed.

"Too bad you had to use up all our time with boring talk," He laments, moving through the room without looking up from where he's typing. "Now I gotta run. Business doesn't wait, you know?"

Peter sits back up, his eyes trailing Edmund who has put the phone away and pulls his jacket back on, checking his reflection in a tall mirror, sifting through his hair. Self-consciously, Peter looks down at himself. He has half the mind to button his shirt back up but he probably looks softer this way, less threatening and the last thing he needs right now is for Edmund to be overly on guard. When he looks back up Edmund fixes him with a stare through the mirror. Meeting Peter's eyes, he smirks.

"You should stay," He says, turns around, advances on Peter again. "And when I come back we will pick up where we left off." His finger grazes from the middle of Peter's chest up to his throat and jumps off his chin like a knife.

"I will," Peter answers. "I will wait for you."

A little scowl appears on Edmund's face but it's just as quickly replaced by a pleased smile.

"Good. Shouldn't be more than a few hours."

Peter watches him naively-hopeful as Edmund grabs a black suitcase and leaves.

With the shut of the door Peter lies back down. He had hoped Edmund would leave the case behind, Peter had noticed it was the only of Edmund's possession in the whole suite, the only thing that could have entailed a clue. He should follow him, try to figure out who he's working with. So that he has at least some names to give to Becket.

Peter sighs. His fingertips trailing the places where Edmund had touched him. He's not going to come back. Peter knows that but he doesn't get up.

 

The auction goes smoothly,  _Hope, II_ is acquired for 22 millions by an anonymous buyer. A week later a security leak is noticed. The money never arrived at the Paris Bank but was instead wired through a number of accounts until somewhere along the line it disappeared from the books. Becket is furious, although not at Peter. He is livid because they were so obviously played. The person associated with the ID, that had drawn their attention in the first place, had committed a series of art thefts two years ago in much the same set up. Becket had never stopped to consider that that little thief might have changed their target and tactic.

'Nonetheless,' Peter muses as he looks at the 22 million and the art now stowed away by the anonymous buyer. 'He still got that painting.'

 

 

 

 

Malibu beaches. White sand. Blazing sun. Tacky swim clothes and freaky cocktails that you slurp out of coconuts. The smile of a handsome stranger nodding to you across the bar. Of course there are other things he could think of to invoke the feeling of warmth.

The hot heat days of Narnia, for example. Except he doesn't really like to remember Narnia anymore these days.

Or he could think of Edmund. Pinned and naked under him. How the ardour of power and forbiddance raced through his veins. Except, he hasn't figured out yet how to think about that without a cold wave of guilt washing over him.

So Malibu beaches it is.

 

He tightens his thermal blanket around his crouched body, his thumb scratching at his stubbly cheek. The rise of steamy exhale continuously destroys his mental images. It's his third week in St. Petersburg and he's huddled in the same fucking spot for hours on end, watching a street and a warehouse were nothing ever happens.

The place where he hides for the stake out is supposed to be an abandoned apartment complex so he can't even risk bringing a heater with him, lest someone would notice any source of electricity. He's taken to bring his flask with him now. Allowing himself a sip or two whenever the cold crawls too deep into his stiff bones.

 

Every night as Peter makes his way back to the room he's staying in, he puts the heater up to full blast and still in his full gear rubs himself all over while his computer is connecting him with headquarters. Then he gets his flask out, usually drains the rest and sits down to give his exciting report of 'All clear.'

Margery, his coordinator, always tries to give him some uplifting words and assures him that Intel is certain if something is going down then it will be soon and it will be there. And he tells her not to worry, it's not his first stake out, he'll be fine. Unfailingly, she will then paint him a glorious future of what his life will be like when he delivers the final proof to warrant an arrest of Mikhail Biryukov, Russian's most notorious gangster boss. That one mob boss, who prides himself on handling his affairs in broad daylight right under the nose of every cop in town. Making him a pretentious dickwad. On the other hand, it means Peter spend his nights in a warm bed.

Peter has always thought Margery too soft for their line of work and he knows that he had gotten her is a small punishment from Becket.

He doesn't give a shit about Biryukov. Sure, it would be nice to put a real dent in the drug and sex traffic but Peter is a realist. Arresting him and a bunch of his accolades won't change anything. The only reason MI6 even send him here is because Biryukov has been widening his market up to Great Britain, though it's mostly focused on the underground scene of London. But none of that matters to Peter. The only reason why he volunteered to take this job was because Edmund had worked for him before. Or at least, Peter is pretty sure he has. The case file he made for Edmund can't exactly be cross-referenced by one of their trained researchers. So he's aware it's a thin lead but he hasn't had so much of a whiff of Edmund in eight months and he's getting desperate.

 

That's when it happens, an unmarked car pulls up, then another, then a motorcycle. And Peter recognizes the figure. He watches Edmund take the helmet off and swagger over cocksure. They start talking, negotiating, arguing. All the while Peter takes photographs, trying to capture Edmund in as few of them as possible.

Suddenly, one of the guys gets a gun out. Edmund is faster and punctures him with a knife. Chaos breaks out, Peter throws his camera to the side and storms out of the apartment, taking the stairs five steps at a time. When he barges through the front door all of Edmund's affiliates are down and he grapples with two guys at the same time. He sticks his knife in the eye socket of one and Peter clips the other in the head with his gun. Edmund's back is heaving inconspicuously, he doesn't let Peter see his face. In the distance police sirens pick up, Peter turns, trying to locate their direction.

When he focuses back on Edmund, he's walking calmly towards his bike.

"Ed!"

But his brother doesn't react to that, just gets on and picks up his helmet. Peter hurries over to him, finger still on the trigger.

"You know I can't just let you leave."

This earns him a brilliant smile.

"Get on then, will you?" Edmund fastens the strap, turns the key and Peter takes a leap.

 

Edmund obviously knows his way around and Peter is certain they're actually getting away when, unfortunately, they take a harsh turn and almost clash with a cop car. The policeman looks more startled than anything but then his gaze narrows. The blood on Edmund and Peter's poorly concealed gun give them away. Edmund kicks the bike into gear and screeches off. A chase ensues, claiming a couple of market stands and heart attacks of pedestrians.

Somehow, Edmund still manages to elude them. He drives into a way too narrow street at which end the motorcycle keels over and they're on the ground rolling.

Soon enough Edmund is back up on his feet and running. He loses his helmet and jacket in a dumpster, throws a lighter in after. Then the sirens blare back up and he's off again, Peter hot on his heels.

Edmund ends up slipping through the heavy double door of a neighbourhood church.

Finally, Peter means to fall in step with his brother, who's hurrying down along the pews.

“So, what is this some kind of Romeo and Juliet crap?” He quips and loosens his tie. “The priest is gonna give us shelter?”

Edmund doesn't react and instead turns the corner. Peter is pumped full of adrenaline but he also wants some answers. When he grabs for Edmund's arm, Edmund dodges him and, unexpectedly, pushes Peter into the confessional instead.

 

His back hits a wall and Edmund's hands are right there unbuckling his pants, crowding him in with his body. Startled, Peter needs a moment to get with the action before he grabs Edmund's waist to crush their hips together. At the same time he leans forward to kiss Edmund, yet, he only turns his face away and plunges a hand into Peter's briefs, working him to hardness. Being denied the intimacy of a kiss, Peter at least plans to return the favour and his fingers soon cease their groping of Edmund's ass to find themselves occupied with his brother's freed dick.

“Imagine the priest stumbling over us now,” Edmund groans out. 

“He'd summon God and let him smite us straight into hell.”

“Or he'd watch.”

At that Peter gives off a harsh moan.

“You'd like that?” He grins. “Or do you imagine being the priest yourself. Catching two naughty boys in the act and forcing them to do all kinds of shit just so he won't tell their parents?” He whispers hotly into Peter's ear. “Isn't that more up your alley?”

Edmund's comments simultaneously turn him on and off. The fantasy is nice but it hits too close to home to be comfortable for him.

To retaliate he therefore lets go of Edmund's dick and brings his hand back to his waist, rocking into him evenly. Feeling Ed slide and press against his thigh and tummy.

“Look at you,” Edmund continues. “I bet you wanna bend me over the altar right now. Make me take your cock so far up my ass that I can't walk for _days._ Jesus looking down at us. Making me come with your dick alone.”

“Fuck, Ed.”

“Want you to give it to me so good, father. Want to be a good boy for you. Let the whole parish see you fuck my dripping hole.”

Peter comes right on the spot, digging his fingers into Edmund's flesh as his brother strokes him through it. But he hasn't forgotten Edmund. He holds him close with one hand at the nape of his neck and the other wanks him off. Not letting Peter take the sole lead, Edmund keeps rocking his hips into Peter's fist, sucking a mark into his skin. Never before has he been this responsive. Then he comes, too, a throaty moan filling the small space and all of Peter's thoughts.

 

Soon enough their panting dies down. Ed puts some space between them and they both right themselves. When Edmund opens the door again and takes a step out Peter grabs him by the wrist.

"Let me fix this."

He looks deep into Edmund's eyes, has the urge to gesture between them. Edmund's face is unreadable but his eyes are icy. Vehemently, he yanks his arm away. This time Peter doesn't have the heart to follow. There is only so much rejection a man can take.

 

He takes a cab back and walks the rest of the way from the police blockade to the warehouse. All kinds of personnel pulled up by now to investigate the corpses and cars. No one's been inside the warehouse, yet. They still think it's some kind of drug deal gone awry. Up to now Peter himself hadn't even been allowed to have a look inside in case he'd accidentally tip someone off. He approaches one of the nearby police officers and is met with an incriminating stare. It's the cop Edmund and him had almost crashed into. Nonetheless, the guy makes no further comment and breaks the lock open. Inside are almost a dozen full carts of cocaine, as well as an address to a farmhouse outside of Rybinsk where they, as Peter later finds out, hide almost twenty children. None of them older than fifteen. Peter shudders to think whether Edmund was the one buying or selling them.

 

It's a victory, with casualties and it could have been cleaner but it's a victory, so Becket is happy with him. Mostly. Because Peter's camera 'got destroyed' and because the policeman ratted him out. A bike driver, clad in all black, the Agent Pevensie sitting behind him, yet scarcely a mention in the report? Peter makes up a story. Becket has no reason to believe its a lie and he likes Peter. Kind of. So he sits down and looks at him intently.

"Is there a bigger picture here I don't see?"

"I think I... I might be onto something, Sir. And this guy he- I mean he clearly has an interest in me, as well, so I don't want to scare him away."

He receives another endlessly long stare then Becket leans back in his chair.

Peter gets the permission to continue. For now. If that guy shows up on any of their radars Peter will be given priority of investigation. He doesn't have to file official reports but Becket wants to know what's up every step of the way.

 

 

 

 

Slums, poverty, prostitution, crime, murder. Earth is a shithole. Is it any wonder that he lost faith there for a time?

In a way Bogotá reflects him like no other city. It has a solid foundation, blooms extraordinarily under the right care, shows to this day excellent promise and still goes down the wrong path every time.

If he had tried harder to get along with his siblings then maybe their parents had never thought about sending them to the country, putting them in the care of his mother's somewhat estranged Godfather. They explained to them that some space outside their tiny apartment away from the big, anonymous city would do them all good.

If only he hadn't suggested to play hide and seek, if only he had never followed Ed and Lucy into the wardrobe, if only he had never fallen out, if only, if only... then maybe he could have been a normal, average Peter. Then he wouldn't have cultivated such a rage, wouldn't have become so murky and  _dubious_ . Wouldn't have done to Edmund what he did. Wouldn't have enjoyed it so.

 

He hadn't gone home that night. Spent it drinking and brawling. He was sixteen and fucking fed up. He didn't know how to fit back in, had become someone else a while ago, was used to make the rules himself. People used to utter his name with respect. This here? This penny-saving, meek-options, dead-end-opportunities, slaving-away-for-others life wasn't his.

After he had the shit kicked out of him by a chippy and his equally oafish friends he had wandered down to the docks and passed out amidst some crates. When he woke up hours later, aching, hungry and stinking like a sewer he decided to drop by home.

Coincidentally, he didn't have his key or felt like ringing so he went around to the back door and picked the lock. The house was void of any noise. He walked straight into the kitchen, got out some OJ and drank right from the jug, traipsing along he glimpsed on the calendar.

Sunday,  _Bake Sale_ .

It would probably be a while then before they'd be back. Suited him just fine, he'd be out again by that time. He took another gulp. Then he heard water rushing through the pipes and the unmistakeable sound of the shower running. He put the can down and went upstairs, glimpsing at the shoes, he saw right away who had ditched church today.

First, he went into his bedroom and pulled out some fresh clothes. On his desk was a bunch of mail addressed to him. He sifted through them mindlessly, nothing in there of real importance. Then the juice made itself known again.

 

When Peter opened the bathroom door he was greeted by Edmund's soapy backside. Noticing how Edmund managed, despite the uncommonly sunny summer, to stay that pale he walked to the toilette and unzipped. Pissing in the bowl like that, Edmund suddenly flinched.

"Jesus Chri- ! Peter?" He yelled. "You scared the crap out of me."

Peter didn't answer. Just flushed and pulled his shirt over his head.

"Why the hell are you even home." He heard Edmund mutter once he got inside the shower. When he reached for the tap Edmund flinched again.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" He complained. Peter didn't pay him any attention just got under the spray and started scrubbing himself. Edmund grumbled but stayed inside, angling his back pointedly towards Peter. He quickly noticed why.

Hands in his lap, he was trying to conceal an erection from his big brother. Peter smirked.

He stroked his wet hair backwards and came up behind Edmund, crowding him further against the tiles. Surprised, yet no less annoyed Edmund peeked over his shoulder.

"What- ?!"

But then Peter had already cupped his dick. Edmund had moaned as if he didn't mean to and almost clamped his hands over Peter's.

"If you don't want this," Peter hissed into his ear and watched the flush spread out over his cheeks. "Just say No."

And he began to jerk Edmund off in quick strokes.

For his part, Edmund didn't really react at all, he seemed determined to just let it happen. Even when Peter grew hard himself and thrust along the crack between his asscheeks, he only splayed his hands against the tiles to brace himself. Peter brought him off rather swiftly, with Edmund clamping a hand on his own mouth to mask the needy sounds he couldn't suppress, and then didn't stop until he found completion for himself. When he was done he simply got some shampoo and finished the shower. Edmund didn't move once until Peter was out of the room.

 

They had figured Bogotá would be another drug errand but he comes back to his safe house one day and there is a note stuck in his door frame with a time and the address of the train station.

_'If you want to fix something. Fix this.'_ It taunts.

Peter gets in a cab immediately. He might still make it on time.

Just as the station comes into view a car explodes in the crowd. 47 dead.

Hours later, after finally making it back to his quarters, it was broken into. They took sensitive information, including the names of three undercover Agents stationed in Columbia. By the time he can inform headquarters the Agents can't be reached anymore.

 

Becket assigns him a partner for any further mission.

 

 

 

 

They're supposed to be on a flight to Indonesia, posing as newly-weds. Never mind, that Jill seems to miss it.

Peter had been informed per text message which plane to catch. At the airport Margery waited with their documents and a dreadful It's-6.30am-and-I'm-happy-to-be-alive smile.

“Did you meet her, yet?” Was her first question. “Picked her out myself. Couldn't believe Mr. Becket would even consider my opinion!” She chuckled.

“You've been doing good work, Margy,” Peter retorted, thumbing through the papers quickly until he found the passports and ID's. “You've earned it.”

Jill hadn't arrived at the check-in on time so Peter simply boarded without her.

He feels already relieved when lo and behold she flops down in the seat next to him after all. Immediately, she leans over and gives him a peck.

“Told you I'd make it, love.”

“Glad you did,” Peter smiles but doesn't take the sunglasses off. 

When Margery told him her real name – Jill Pole – a bell rang immediately and he quickly figured out why that is. He had heard her name before. Margery went on to say that she may be young and this would be her first mission in the field but she is absolutely promising, very enthusiastic, a bit head strong and, incidentally, she went to school with his cousin Eustace.

“I know that you're more of a lone wolf but everyone at work also knows how important your family is to you, so I thought you might be more amenable to someone, who already has a connection to yours.” She poked him in the ribs with her elbow, grinning palsy-walsy.

Apart from the fact that he probably hasn't seen or spoken to Eustace in well over ten years, she couldn't have been more wrong.

 

Jill pulls him into mindless chitchat, which soon she gracefully steers over to their current case.

“So, you've met this guy what, like five times already and you still know next to nothing about him?”

“If it were that easy then you wouldn't be here, would you,” He snaps. There's everything she needs to know laying encrypted in her lap for God's sakes.

Deliberately, Peter angles his body towards the window. She takes the hint.

 

_You still know next to nothing about him?_

Rather, he knows next to everything about him.

How he smells at the juncture where his shoulder becomes his neck right before he comes, because Peter used to pull him into his lap when they were home alone and watching TV. He'd jerk him off to the images of some bloody, sweaty action hero. He'd start slowly. Beckoning Edmund over or demanding that he got up so that Peter could sit down before rearranging them both. Then he would just put his hands on Ed's thighs or curl around his belly and they would sit like that for a while, chest pressed to back. When the action picked up, so would his hands. Stroking along the inseam of his pants and slowly work him to hardness. When the first big explosion happened, he would get Edmund's and his own cock out. He'd wank him off while he was rutting and rubbing into Edmund's backside. Usually, Ed would come before him and Peter would snatch his soiled hand away and use it on himself until he spilled all over Edmund's back and, more often than not, Hoodie.

During the whole act, Edmund would not say a single word.

 

He's heard and coaxed noises that no brother should know of their younger sibling.

By the time summer ended and they went back to another year of boarding school Edmund had himself so much under control that not a single sound would slip from between his lips, sometimes not even his breathing seemed to pick up. That simply wouldn't do.

“Let's get out of here. I already told your teacher you weren't feeling well today.” Peter had appeared in Edmund's door right as he was about to leave.

“Okay,” He answered.

Peter took him up to the attic. Their school was surrounded by miles and miles of fields and forest. There was no way he would do something like this surrounded by bugs.

He didn't have much of a reference point. The internet could only help so much. In the end he went out on a date with one of Susan's girlfriends and had her suck him off. He had no interest in her but she was known for being quite experienced. Peter tried to concentrate on picking up on as many pointers as possible. And her reputation wasn't false.

 

Edmund's scent was so very different and so very intense in his crotch. For some reason he hadn't expected that. He still liked it, though. So he spent a considerable amount just nuzzling into it, touching and feeling without reserve. Edmund reacted accordingly and Peter's first taste sealed the deal. The flavour, the noises Ed couldn't hold back, how hard his hands clenched on the table he had leaned against, Peter knew he would do this over and over and over.

When Edmund had spilled and Peter swallowed all of it, he reversed their position.

“Now you,” He said and guided Edmund's head to his open fly.

Edmund's eyes had been closed practically the whole time they were up there.

 

From there it didn't take long to evolve further.

Inadvertently, Peter established somewhat of a routine. He would, for whatever reason, tend to end up in a fight with someone and then he would find Edmund.

At first he didn't even get admonished by any of the teachers.

'Not Peter Pevensie!' They would exclaim when they heard of a brawl he was supposedly a part of. A lot of the time none of the boys involved would even speak up. Especially, when it was three of them and only one of Peter and they still lost. But they couldn't pretend forever where the bruises had come from and when Peter kicked the shit out of a fellow classmate right in the cafeteria, they couldn't overlook it any further.

A stern warning.

“Anybody else would have been thrown out. Not the golden boy, though,” Edmund remarked as Peter came to his room afterwards. They told him to get his hand looked at in the infirmary, but his blood was still thrumming so he didn't.

“Just get on the bed,” Peter said.

That was the first time he pushed a finger into Edmund's ass, he hadn't planned on it so he made do with spit, but the way Edmund's body violently shuddered and made him gag on his cock was worth everything.

It would quickly become one of his favourite things. Forcing more and more of his fingers into Ed's hole. Sometimes, he wouldn't do anything else and Edmund never spoke when they were doing these things, so they would just lie mutely on a bed. Edmund usually naked from the waist down and Peter reading for class or fucking around on his laptop, fingers shoved into Ed's virgin hole. He would curl them from time to time just to feel Ed clench around them. A guy could become addicted to a feeling like that.

 

Inevitably, like everything else around him, he destroyed this, too.

They were home for their winter break. The streets were decorated with reds and greens, knee-high snow was laying all around, children with rosy cheeks meandered with their equally serene parents. Lights and bells and steamy foods and belly-warming drinks. The mood couldn't be more festive. Even in their own home. Susan's and Lucy's wariness concerning Peter's behaviour had made way for boisterous playfulness. He was charming to their parents' friends, polite to their daughters, obliging with the chores accompanying all kinds of little interim gatherings, he told jokes and harmless anecdotes, and hadn't touched Edmund all week. He was on his best behaviour, a real delight as it were.

On Christmas Eve, after church and after dinner, they had all retired to the living room. Lucy and Edmund sat with their hands around hot cocoa mugs, Susan and their mother elected to take a cup of tea, leaving their father with a glass of sherry and Peter also with tea, plus the rest of the Scotch he had brought back from school. Their mindless chatter had grown into more sincere heart-to-hearts and Peter thought wistfully to the empty bottle hidden in the cupboard.

His father, with a slightly reddish nose, began to talk about how proud he was of all their children and even though he knew growing up can sometimes mean growing apart, he was glad that their family had such a strong bond. Then their mother, with increasingly wetting eyes, had chimed in that none of them could ever do anything that would lessen their love and that she all just wants them to find their path and be happy. Regardless, how thinly veiled this all was Peter made an attempt to meet their gazes unperturbed. His eyes tended to flick over to Edmund. Sitting in the armchair, knees up to his face, mug on top, looking outside and watching the snow as if none of this concerned him.

In the end he was the first to go to bed and after Peter could disengage himself from their parents, who hugged him at the same time and Lucy, who honest to God cried into his neck and Susan, who at first only settled a hand on his shoulder and then, overcome by whatever emotion compelled her, flung herself into his arms, as well.

Happy bloody Christmas, indeed.

 

When he finally closed the door behind him, the bedroom was illuminated solely by the holiday lights draped around their window. Edmund watched them and scooted wordlessly over when Peter got in beside him. Divesting him quickly of his clothes Peter pulled Edmund's legs apart and without much preamble worked a slick finger in.

“Keeping in spirit with the festivities I figured we'd go all the way tonight,” He declared, casual as if predicting the snowfall for tomorrow. Edmund didn't agree or stiffened or made any indication either way. He just adjusted his head until he could watch the lights again.

After rushing the preparation, having barely worked the third finger in, he motioned for Edmund to sit up.

He pulled a bit of cloth from his backpack by the bed.

“Open your mouth,” He said. “You don't want to disturb the others.”

Edmund hesitated and that made a sinister warmth spread in Peter's belly.

“If you don't want this, just say No.”

Edmund opened his mouth. Peter tied the kerchief securely around his head. Then he lay back.

“Turn around and sit down. Fuck yourself on me.”

Slowly, a bit shakily, Edmund complied. His pale thighs quivered as he positioned himself astride Peter's crotch and lowered himself. Peter crossed his hands behind his head.

“If you want it in there, you'll have to guide it.”

Again Edmund stopped, just for a second, then he grasped Peter's cock and positioned it at his entrance.

Torture. How tight he squeezed him, the heat surrounding him further and further. He wanted nothing more than to buck up into it but this hadn't been the time for that. Ed, though muffled, kept making pathetic whimpers and hitching his breath.

Once Edmund had taken him fully, he stilled, his shoulders heaved.

“Get on with it, then.”

Edmund flexed his toes, bunched his fingers into the sheets but did as he was told. Peter endured a couple more of these slow drags of up and down before he grabbed both of Edmund's wrist and pulled them behind his back. It forced Edmund to sit a lot more upright but he didn't resist and actually began to speed up.

That was more like it. Peter shifted his grip until he held Edmund's wrists together with one hand, while his other latched onto his hip, tugging him harder back onto his cock. Fuck, it felt so good, Peter almost worried he'd make too much noise.

Then he saw something that made him let go of his baby brother in a flash. Ed was crying. Almost imperceptibly tears rushed down his cheeks. Surely, he had noticed Peter's abrupt shift but he didn't falter much in his movements and certainly didn't turn his head so Peter could see the full extent of his misery.

“Stop,” He murmured. Reluctantly, Edmund did. Waiting anxiously while Peter took a few deep breaths.

Abruptly, he decided to move, toppled Ed over until he lay askew on the bed, face pushed into the mattress, knees and elbows sticking out in odd angles. He was about to right himself again when Peter pushed his head further down, holding it there and breached him anew.

He picked up a rough pace that didn't fully allow Edmund to right or brace himself in any way. He just had to lay there and take it. Take it and take it until eventually Peter pulled out to come all over his ass and back.

Then he left. Not checking if Edmund had managed to come himself, doubting he'd even been hard.

 

Peter didn't come back for three days. When the phone rang and his father bailed him out of jail an hour later, none of his family members said anything.

 

_Just say No._

 

_Just say ..._

 

_Just- !_

 

 

They arrive in Kuala Lumpur and Peter wakes with a start.

“Shall we?” Jill smiles complacently and holds out her hand for him to take. 

Newly-weds, right.

 

They spend the day exploring the commerce district, keeping an eye out for their mark. Nothing even remotely promising comes their way though and by dusk they make their way back to the hotel.

Crossing one of the big markets, with their stands laden with fish and fruit, Jill suddenly stops. Peter notices it a moment later but when he turns around her posture is relaxed enough. Behind his sunglasses he rolls his eyes, goes to retrieve her nonetheless.

“Find something?”

“No, I... Do you see this lion statue there?” She asks instead. At the other end of the market stands a temple, guarded by two lions on each side.

“What about it?”

Awkwardly, she scratches her head.

“Not to sound completely weird but I... I met a lion once.”

Peter looks back to the statues and thinks again about hearing Jill's name before. It wasn't because she was in a grade with Eustace. It was Lucy. Lucy had mentioned this girl to him.

“It was an important, truly defining moment of my life really. That lion... I was just any ordinary girl, you know? I never thought I'd accomplish much. No one I knew ever had. But after meeting Him, I... that encounter made me realize who I wanted to be. And how I could make that happen. Helping many people, changing the world, but also keeping it safe.”

“A lion told you to become an Agent for the Secret Service?”

“In a way.” She grins, makes an half-aborted attempt to show her respect to the statue and strolls on. Peter throws one last look at the lion's eyes and follows her then.

 

Two weeks after jail, after Edmund, they meant to head back to school and landed in Narnia instead. There isn't really much to say about that time, except that he felt like an imposter. And that that broke his heart. Because if he didn't fit in in England and if he didn't fit in in Narnia, anymore then what the hell was he to do?

In the end his glorious series of fuck ups prevailed. Even when he tried to do the noble thing, or the valiant thing, or the right thing. Ultimately, the happy end was all due to the others and none of it was him.

Long live the damn King, and all that.

Then Aslan sought him out, or Peter probably did.

 

He could still redeem himself. Anger wasn't necessarily a terrible trait. It's not Aslan's forgiveness he needs to seek out.

No, Peter, there will no longer be a place here for you. As it has to be. For you are needed elsewhere. Become once again the man who used to carry his crown with humbleness.

 

He shrunk away, after, too crushed to face even the most well-meaning creature. Edmund found him, or stumbled over him, more likely.

Peter had retreated to one of the most secluded spots, no one intentionally strayed this way. It was a balcony-like alcove high up on the castle, overlooking a vast expanse of forest.

Edmund opened the door, an apology about to spill from his lips when he realized it was Peter he had walked upon. He stilled, as did Peter.

They hadn't spoken a word since ….

There were none now, either.

Peter turned back around to watch the sky, Edmund had come in further and closed the door. An undeserved warm presence next to Peter.

They stayed like that for a long while until Peter could not take it any longer. But it was Edmund who grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him.

After all the things they had done together, Peter could not believe he had neglected to try this. Peter's hands came to a rest upon Edmund's waist. The kiss deepened. Then ended.

Edmund walked away, taking everything, every explanation, accusation, and vindication with him.

All that remained was Peter; sliding down the wall and breaking apart.

 

Once more he had become different after returning, or at least he had been determined that that was the case.

He submitted to his lot. Did homework, stayed out of trouble, became a glowing example of coming out of the 'rebellious phase' and landing on top. Younger students looked up to him, his own class members celebrated him, the teachers praised him. Mum and Dad were so happy. Susan and Lucy incredibly relieved.

He kept this up for a whole year.

Wouldn't have been able to if Edmund hadn't been there. That was the only thing he couldn't give up. Sleeping with him. And what did one flaw matter if no one knew of it?

It's not like he didn't try to be more affectionate and considerate in satisfying Ed's needs. But he just didn't respond either way, he never said No, so... .

 

After graduating he applied to the training program for the Secret Service without telling anybody. The teachers had almost stumbled over themselves to write recommendations for him and his track record didn't show off any of his misdemeanor. He got in. His mum cried out of happiness. Everyone was proud and supportive and fucking ecstatic. Edmund had been gone back early to school by then, he had enrolled in a two week intensive science class. But he had called that evening. Probably just to check in, Susan was the one to answer, to tell him the great news, to tell him “We were just about to go out and celebrate a bit, I'll call you back tomorrow, all right?”

Except they couldn't reach him then, no one was worried though. It was very much like Edmund, they'd get a hold of him soon enough.

It took two weeks before the school called and asked if their Father had recovered well and would Edmund join them again soon?

 

Needless to say, Peter's been chasing him ever since.

 

They're sitting down for an early dinner when both their phones get a text message from Intel. Smuggled goods are being transported.

The coordinates bring them to a stretch of seemingly abandoned train tracks.

 

Both of them have their guns out, split up enough to cover a good amount of ground but still staying in sight of one another. Peter's just peeking into a rusty trolley carriage when Jill shouts “Watch out!”

A grenade flies their way and they both jump into cover. Then there's screeching and a hissing sound. One of the trains furthest away gets into motion and the grenade turns out to be nothing but a smoke bomb.

“Fuck!” Peter curses and dashes for the waggon. 

Keeping his eyes locked on the train, while trying to navigate sure-footed over the tracks and gravel, he watches the door of the last compartment open. Edmund steps out. Jill yells something but Peter can't listen. Edmund is calmly loosening a plate hanging from the handrail, not paying them a mind in the slightest.

The train is gaining more and more speed. Peter's heart rate is going through the roof but finally he risks a jump and just so manages to land with one foot on the ledge.

He grips the handrail with both hands and pants heavily.

That's when Ed turns, a brilliant, beaming smile on his face, as if they hadn't seen each other in years and Peter happened to drop in for a surprise visit.

“Ed- “

But Edmund only closes the distance between them, hauls Peter in by the tie and plants a tender kiss on his lips. The train is going into a bend at nearly full speed and the wind whips past but Peter barely takes note of these things. When he lets go of the handrail to hold onto his brother instead, Edmund pushes him off.

The last thing he sees is Edmund's back, walking away, not even staying to see if Peter will survive the fall, then he crashes down a ravine.

 

“What were you doing? I told you to stop!” Jill yells as soon as she finds him.

“I had him!”

“Oh really?” She interjects. “Jumping on a waggon with who knows which criminals and potentially dangerous weapons and- !”

“What would you have done?!”

“Get in a bloody car? Get a hold of Margery to give us traffic cameras? I was ready to at least take a picture! When you suddenly obstructed my view! Now we have nothing!”

They angrily stare at each other for another moment until Peter turns away and kicks an empty soda can in frustration.

 

“Did you know that I met your brother once?” Jill says, a damp towel around her shoulders, sitting down on the opposite side of the kitchen table, where Peter had strewn a variety of maps and books and documents. He doesn't even deign this with looking up.

“And then this guy today... “ She trails on, absent-mindedly rubbing strands of her hair. “For a second there I could have sworn- “

“My brother died a long time ago,” Peter clips, writing unimportant nonsense down.

“Fuck, I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to open old wounds- I just... “ She shakes her head. “Never mind. I should probably just go to bed.” 

And with that she gets up and disappears into their bedroom. A king-size bed, that Peter is supposed to share with her for the sake of their cover. Whatever, Peter decides, it's unlikely they'll be allowed to stay in Indonesia any longer, he can sleep on the plane tomorrow. So, he finds the liquor supply and gets in the shower later, rubbing one out to the image of Edmund's tear-streaked face smashed into pillows.

 

 

 

 

A month later they attend a meeting with Germany's department of protection against foreign threats. There are indicators that smuggled arms are distributed among potential risk groups. In other words: terrorists in training. Jill forwards all their information unreluctant and the Germans repay the favour. In the end it's still scarcely enough to pinpoint any certain location. However, they do need an access point, or rather an access person – here Jill throws him a quick displeased look – if they want to get anywhere. The meeting ends with promises to keep each other posted. Not that either of their Agencies will do that if it can be helped.

 

As they step out into the street Jill stretches her arms over her head, groaning downright obscene.

“Perfect weather for some sight-seeing,” She remarks, looking pointedly at him through her sunglasses. “Care to tag along?”

“Not really,” He grouses and makes for the hotel.

 

He's already laying out plans of getting wasted on the Room's mini bar and dozing away to mind-numbing Daytime TV when he opens the door.

“Don't be alarmed, it's only me!” Edmund calls before Peter can even see him. “No reason to get your gun out.”

Peter finds him lounging on the bed.

“Unless you take 'gun' as an euphemism for 'penis', in that case don't let me hold you back,” He winks, relaxed against the backrest, shoes on the bed. At least, some things don't change.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Peter grumbles but walks past him to the closet, getting rid of his jacket and tie, and goddamn shoes. He's not an animal.

“I did the dreadfully cliché thing of bribing the lobby boy.”

When Peter doesn't seem to be responding anything, Edmund just chatters mindlessly on.

“I mean I'm pretty appalled by myself. I kinda like to think I've come far enough in the corporate ladder not to have to resort to this kind of amateur methods but, you know, back to basics and all that. At least I had money and didn't have to offer up my body like in the beginning,” He woes. “Didn't want to exhaust myself before even making it here, you know? Also I don't think you would have appreciated my hole dripping with someone else's come already. You never did like to share your toys- “

“Stop!” Peter brittles. “Edmund, just- just stop.”

Fists unclenching, he slowly turns around and meets Edmund's unimpressed gaze.

“I need you to give me something here, okay? I need you to tell me what you're- why are you doing this?”

“Seriously? You want to waste all our time with talking? Yet again?” He raises an eyebrow. “Back then you could barely keep your paws off me.” 

“All these people... “ Peter stays resolutely on track. “You don't care about them at all, do you? They don't mean anything to you.”

“What people?” He snickers.

“What people? The people you killed! Moscow and Bogotá and that arse-end of the world shit village in Tennessee and where ever else you fuck around. What do you think happens to those people you sell drugs and arms to? What do you think this is?” 

Edmund scoffs.

“What exactly makes you think I'm the one responsible for all that, huh? God forbid, that your traitor brother actually buy these things for myself so they don't get to circulate around. I mean, could you imagine? No, of course not. How could the spare brother of the good, great, magnificent Peter Pevensie possibly be like that! Have you, Pete, ever imagined that your way of following the law is not actually helping anyone? Do you really think that your fucking MI6 or whoever you work for gives a shit about the people who die at 'my' hands? Don't be ridiculous.” He spits. “Tell me, why do you think I lured you to all these places? I wanted to strike a deal with Biryukov and that stuff in the warehouse could have put a lot of pressure on him, in the right hands, mind you. In Bogotá, I wanted you to stop that fucking suicide bomber but you were doing what exactly? Moping around in your little hacienda, doing fuck all the entire time. And then you left all your stuff unprotected behind! Same thing in goddamn Tennessee and Indonesia and Shanghai, two years ago. I mean what exactly is it that you do? What does MI6 actually ever fucking do for anybody?”

Peter heaves a great sigh.

“Edmund, I don't know what to do. What do you- what do you want me to do?”

“Well, at this very moment, I had merely hoped for you to stick your dick in me but I guess the moods kinda ruined now.”

Edmund gets off the bed, smoothes his outfit out. Peter comes over to him. Not daring to do anything but unwilling to let Edmund leave him behind, yet again. Seemingly satisfied with his appearance Edmund grants Peter a gullible smile. Then he takes Peter's face tenderly in his hands.

“Do you do all this because you hate me so much?”

“You really don't understand anything, do you?” He says but it's a treacherously cold statement. Devoid of any sentiment. Like Peter's a lost cause he is fed up bothering about. So, his hands glide away and he is obviously aiming for the exit. Peter grabs him by the waist and hauls him in for a desperate kiss. He gets a syringe jammed into his neck for the trouble.

 

 

 

 

Only a week later they're dispatched to Casablanca, Morocco.

Jill had been gone on another mission so they arrive on separate planes. He reads through the file; telling him they're here to catch a rogue Agent with access to sensitive data and bring him home. Or dispose of him. Whatever seems more doable. Then the door to their rented rooftop apartment jostles open and there she is. Looking more like a tourist than anything with her giant purse, sunglasses dropping down her nose and that scarf slung around her head.

When she sees him, her face turns a bit more inert and tentatively she pulls her hair free of the garment.

“Let's get that son of a bitch home, hm?”

Peter merely gives a vague nod in her direction.

 

They begin by tracking down the people he's been in contact with and from there they find his hideout. Then it's only waiting. Peter in a chair, gun pointing at the front door. Jill behind it, ready to grab him. And it works just fine. At first. He seems to be willing to comply but then he makes a grab for Peter's gun and Jill jumps out and they grapple. She overpowers him. Then she doesn't. Peter tries to beat him down but he's fighting like a rabid dog and then... well, Pete's shirt is definitely ruined. No way, he's gonna get that much blood out. And he had just bought it, too.

 

They scour the house to take everything valuable and potentially incriminating with them and then stage it like a robbery gone wrong.

 

They slink around the back alleys trying to get back to the hotel as inconspicuously as possible. Peter's shirt taken off and bunched in his hand. He's seriously about to fucking lose it with his 'great, enthusiastic' partner.

“Jill!” He snubs at her. “Is there anything in particular you need to get off your chest?”

She looks at him caught but doesn't offer anything up.

“No? Can we then please just get back to our bloody room so I can shower and you can stop staring at me as if I murdered your cat?” He stares her down for a moment longer, then simply huffs and stomps away.

“I talked to Lucy,” She admits finally.

That gets him to stop.

“Whatever it is you're about to say, don't,” He warns.

But, alas it was 'great, enthusiastic  _and_ headstrong', after all.

“It's just- If you thought it was Edmund and I did then maybe- “

“Don't!” 

Now he does turn on her, as menacing and dangerous as he dares. She meets him there.

“Really! Because it would explain a lot actually! Your track record has always been disgustingly immaculate, but ever since you met this guy- !”

“I said give it a rest!”

She continuous to glare at him but keeps her mouth shut.

“You think just because you're a field Agent now, you know all about the business. Running around in ludicrous outfits, with all your ideas how things should be done and your annoying as shit know-it-all attitude. You were afraid that you're just an ordinary girl? Well, let me reassure you there. You're a fucking nobody and nothing you do will ever change that. Wrong fucking career.”

The wetness springing to her eyes, almost produce something akin to guilt in him. But as he had just laid out to her; she is a nobody and her feelings mean absolutely nothing.

“Screw you, too, Peter,” She counters then and storms past him.

 

He stomps into the opposite direction. Dumping the shirt deep in a random dumpster, acquiring a cheap new one and ducking into the shadiest bar he can find.

He's three drinks in when the bartender makes a casual pass at him. She's pretty with her blonde hair, busty rack and lips pulling ever so slightly into a mischievous grin. He lets her talk to him for the rest of her shift. With a slow night like this, it's probably just as well for her.

“So, I'm off in half an hour,” She mentions, leaning much too far in while pouring him yet another shot. “You think you're still around by then?”

“Depends,” He muses and sets the glass to his lips.

“On?”

“Whether or not you'll be fine with a shithole of a hotel because I pretty much already spend all my money here.”

“Ah, I think I know just the place,” She chuckles and goes to tend to another costumer.

 

She brings him to probably the seediest Motel in all of bloody Morocco. He can hear people yelling and throwing shit even from where he stands and waits in the parking lot. Finally, Salma comes back crooks her finger at him and entices him with a come-hither look.

 

It's been a while since he fucked pussy but ramming into her and fondling her breasts makes him realize that he should be doing this much more. Fuck, she felt amazing around him. Her velvety folds pulling him in so good, her warmth and squishy wetness just making him want to rut harder. And, God, she didn't hold back, either. Screaming and yelling at the top of her lungs.

By the time they had switched to their third position he came and immediately she pulled him down to eat her out.

Afterwards, they lay there lax and exhausted. Still, he gets up soon enough and makes for the shower.

“You're not a nice person, are you?” She asks serenely into the room.

Peter stops in the doorway for a moment.

“No,” He answers then. “I'm really not.”

 

When he gets back she's asleep. Remembering his apartment and Jill in it, he lays back down with her.

 

The first thing he registers when he wakes up are the contorted grey shadows across the room, accompanied by indiscernible noise produced by the TV. Through his clenched eyes he can still discern that Salma is not beside him anymore, out of reflex he sits up.

At the little table sits Edmund, idly munching on a paprika and following the telly programme enraptured. Further towards the bathroom is Salma, tied to a chair. Her head is drooping and it looks like there's dried blood at her temple.

Peter tries to overrule his body's instinct to tense up and instead means to address Edmund calmly. But as soon as he opens his mouth does Edmund hold a finger up towards him, albeit not taking his eyes off of the unfolding soap opera.

 

Peter takes a moment to survey the room. Pants plus phone are right by the bed, gun is under it, he had slid it down there as soon as they had stumbled in, Shirt is by the door. He slinks towards the jeans. Both he and Salma are only in their underwear, not ideal.

“Can't believe Juan Carlo would do something like that,” Edmund shakes his head in disbelief, turns the TV off and pops the last of the paprika into his mouth before turning towards Peter. “Going somewhere?”

“Just kinda cold, nights a pretty chilly here.”

Edmund humphs in agreement and watches while Peter puts his pants back on.

“How's Jill?” He asks. “Haven't seen her in forever.”

“Good. She's good. Her grandma caught a cold recently but she's out of the woods now.”

“Good to hear, good to hear,” Edmund muses disinterested. “You fucked her, yet?”

“80 plus isn't really my type, you know,” Peter clicks and zips up his fly.

Edmund's laugh is stilted.

“Real comedian, you are.”

 

Just then Peter notices a knife sitting by Ed's elbow, when he meets his gaze again Edmund smiles smugly. He slides his fingers around the handle and gets up, not looking away from Peter for a single second.

“Let's wake your whore, huh?” He suggests and saunters over to her.

“Edmund, come on. What are you doing?”

“Wakey wakey,” He sing-songs. “What's her name? No, don't tell me I want to guess. Sara? Fatima? Ghita? Is it Jasmine?”

“Edmund.” Peter pleads. Wrong choice. Edmund backhands her.

“Wake up!”

Groaning and whimpering through her mouth gag she slowly slips back into consciousness. Assisted by Edmund's grip in her hair, she lifts her head. Tears of terror start streaming down her face as she takes in Edmund and then Peter.

“She has nothing to do with this.” Peter reasons. “I thought you were on a mission to make the world a better place? Let her go, come on.”

“Yeah, well,” Ed sighs theatrically. “Sorta lied about that. Biryukov is a good friend of mine and that bomb in Bogotá went off because I said so, just like those three Agents are dead because of me. Also you should totally keep an eye out for some great headlines coming from Germany next month.”

He chuckles to himself while prowling around Salma, steadily letting his knife run over her skin.

“Funny enough, though. Because you really did believe all that crap, didn't you? That it was you who fucked all of that up. Probably because you do know that deep down you really are nothing but a depraved, sadistic asshole.”

He stops moving and looks thoughtful into the air. Salma throws Peter a look of pure fear, begging him to help her.

“Ed,” Peter tries again. “Please. Do to me whatever you want but Salma- please don't hurt her. She's just a girl. She's never done anything in her life. You frighten her. Just take the binding off and let her go home. Pleas- ”

“IT'S NOT LIKE YOU CARE!” He screams and pinches the bridge of his nose a second later, like he can't believe Peter made him lose his cool like that. He huffs annoyed and then crouches down to be closer to Salma's face.

“Want me to tell you a little story about our dear Petey, here?” Bigger tears well up and she muffles something.

“He used to fuck me. Aaaall the time. And mind you, he wasn't gentle about it. But that's how big brothers are, hmm? They just take what they want.”

When the words register in her brain, she throws Peter a scandalous look. But his attention is wholly on Edmund now, he has to find a way out of this. Before Edmund does something Peter can't get him out of any longer.

“And I used to admire him so much, as well. Just wanted my big bro to love me. But he always pretended not to hear me when I called his name afterwards. Just left me behind drenched and ashamed with his semen drying all over me. And you wouldn't believe how easily he always shook me off the few times I tried to reach out to him. It was always all about him.”

He throws Peter a smile, the utmost amusement dancing in his eyes.

“But I was okay with all that. Because I knew the real Pete. For everyone else he always pretended to be such a good boy but I knew him. I saw the real monster, practically had him in me every other day after all,” He laughed. “But then, one day, what do I hear? He's back on the straight and narrow!” And Edmund stands back up, stretching his arms out to both sides. “Gonna work for MI6, they told me. Peter's finally got a hold of himself. Everyone's so proud and happy!” He grins, then stops. “But I knew it wasn't true. He'd never change. And I was determined to proof just that to the whole goddamn world if I had to. And this is where you come into play my lovely Salma.”

She chokes panicked when Edmund comes to stand beside her, knife pressed to her throat.

Peter extends a hand, willing him not to do this.

“Ed, if you love me at all then- “

That earns him a crazed, incredulous laugh.

“If I love you? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Because you said you don't hate me, I figured... “

Edmund looks at him absolutely stunned.

“Jesus Christ. You really are the most pathetic person I know. You're a good fuck,” He exclaims. “Other than that I do not give a shit about you. Do you still don't get that? I told you, I did not deliberately lead you to all these places. You just kept getting in my way all on your own and I fucked with you so much because I know from experience the best way to get you to be an apathetic, self-absorbed brooding mess is to have random sex with you. God.”

 

A small voice in Peter's head nails that as a lie. He would not have seen Edmund as much in these last years if Edmund himself hadn't wanted him to. The chance meeting in Tennessee must have been just as rattling to him. That has to be the truth. Because Peter doesn't think he could deal with the alternative.

 

“How to distract your man 101. Those magazines of Susan do have something to be said for them. Hmm? What do you think, Salma, dear?” Edmund leans down to speak directly into her ear. She shudders and again searches Peter's gaze.

“Please,” Peter asks one last time. “Let her go.”

Unperturbed, Edmund just slits her throat instead.

Instantly, Peter lunges for him and they land in a wrestling heap on the floor. The knife is flung somewhere to the bed and Peter tries everything to restrain Edmund's limbs but when he gets a hold of one, another hits him in the face or stomach or anywhere really.

 

Before he knows it Ed tugs him close and their mouths smash together. Hands on collars and buttons, until Ed's creamy chest comes into view and Peter's pants are halfway down his legs again. His mouth latches onto Edmund's nipple, he gets a leg in between his thighs for that. But it needs to be more and he forces the shirt completely off Edmund's body and changes their position so that he has him on his back. Next he opens the fly and pulls the pants down, too. Edmund watches him do it with hungry eyes. Provocatively, he spreads his legs as soon as he's naked.

Peter can't help but take a pause. He sits back, means to plant his hands behind him for steadying and comes into contact with a warm liquid. With a start he pulls the hand back and sees the blood clinging to it. Both him and Edmund watch it drip down his fingers.

Quietly, Ed cackles and Peter's temper snaps. He grabs him by his still spread legs and hauls him forward, fully intending for the rug burn contorting Edmund's smile. Without preamble he forces him on his stomach and is surprised by how easily his little brother lets it happen. But then again his haughty grin seems to be permanently plastered to his face. As if he somehow tricked Peter and there isn't really anything he can do to be the one in control. That it is solely reserved for Edmund.

 

So be it! He scoops his palm through the puddle of blood and begins to open Edmund up with hurried fingers. Edmund purrs, rocking his hips back greedily. When Peter finds his prostate and tortures it deliberately Edmund begins to lose his composure. He moans loudly, scratches the floor and twists his hips impatiently.

“Just fuck me already!” He yells then.

This time it is Peter who laughs. He rearranges Edmund until he can fit his dick perfectly against his hole. He has no interest in seeing his cock lathered with blood so he pushes in mostly dry. Immediately, Edmund's pleased groan turns into a pained grunt but Peter relishes in it. He sees Edmund's hand still clawed into the carpet and without much thought interlaces their fingers. His bloody hand print staining Edmund's pristine skin everywhere.

“Fuck, I missed this. Having you under me like this,” Peter rambles. “You're so beautiful, so fucking hot.”

“Shut up and actually do it then, would you!”

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Peter grunts and drives in deep. Making sure to aim for Edmund's sweet spot every time. Relentlessly, he picks up his pace, ramming into the heat without any gentleness.

Sure enough climax nears and he bites down hard on Edmund's shoulder, making him come first. The clenching muscle wrenches his orgasm from him and he spurts everything he has into him.

 

Later, after they cleaned each other in the bathtub and disposed Salma in it, they lay down on the bed. They're both still naked and not thinking about what anything of this means for the future.

 

Momentarily, Edmund hangs off the bed and emerges back up with the knife in hand. The blood on it already dried but he still tries to wipe it off. Peter watches him. They haven't said a word, yet.

Then Edmund scoots closer and makes to sit astride on Peter, rubbing his ass rhythmically on his dick. He's not sure if he can get it up a third time tonight, although, Edmund can be rather persuasive.

Calmly, the tip of his knife lands directly over his heart. Edmund doesn't put much strength behind it, just enough for Peter to feel it.

“You want to carve my heart out?”

“It's mine and I should be able to do with it as I please.”

Peter hisses as the blade nicks his skin. In the next moment Edmund leans down and kisses the wound.

“Let's fuck again.”

“Yeah, okay.”

 

Edmund goes down on him and Peter hates that he has become so incredibly good at it without him being there.

Once he is achingly hard again, Ed moves back upwards. Sitting down on his stomach, Peter almost takes it as a cue to start blowing him, as well, but Ed only leans over to the bedside table and gets out lube.

“There's a reason these hotels charge hourly, you know.”

Peter smiles fondly at his clever little brother. Quickly, he snatches the lube from him, slicks himself and Ed's hole up. Then Edmund hovers over his dick, looking expectantly down at him. Peter does the only sane thing and presses Edmund down by the hips.

They moan in unison as they connect once more. Ed starts a slow and very sweet rhythm. They both keep their eyes locked on each other. It's only when Peter bucks up into him, does Edmund have to close his.

Together they coax another orgasm from each others bodies. Their hands interlock just as Edmund spills over Peter's chest and Peter shoots another load into him.

Then Edmund's energy leaves him and Peter manhandles him down beside him, one arm still cradled around him.

They regulate their breathing slowly and Peter almost drifts off when a tentative hand lands on his chest, right above his heart.

 

“It is mine, isn't it?”

And Peter can't believe that after everything they've done to each other he still has to ask that.

“It's always been yours.” Is all he answers and isn't crazy enough to ask for Edmund's in return.

 


End file.
